A dulled throb bloomed behind Elias’s eyes, a persistent percussion against the inside of his skull. Awareness returned in staggered, unwelcome waves. He lay sprawled across his bed, a familiar comfort now alien. Even in that haze, some primal instinct had stirred, locking the chamber door before oblivion claimed him. Remarkable, how such base cunning surfaced in extremis. Stillness claimed him. He blinked, the perpetual twilight seeping through his window doing little to illuminate his pain. His entire face pulsed with a numb ache, a leaden weight settling into his features. A hand, stiff and reluctant, rose from his side. A jolt of rust-like pain shot through his shoulder as he moved, each joint a grinding gear. “Ah…” The sound was a shallow breath, barely a whisper. Tentatively, he probed his battered body. Fingers brushed against hardened, tender spots beneath his tunic, where skin had risen in unnatural welts. For a long moment, he remained supine, a broken puppet. Then, pressing his palm against the worn mattress, he pushed himself upright. Perched on the bed’s edge, Elias stared, unseeing, at the shadowed wall. Then, without warning, a sound tore from his throat. A whimper, then a raw, ragged sob, scraped past vocal cords that felt scoured with sand. Tears, hot and shameful, streamed down his cheeks. Anger, sudden and fierce, ignited within him. He sprang up, scattering the few small objects from his bedside table – a discarded quill, a chipped clockwork cog, a page of unfinished deciphering. They clattered, pathetic echoes in the quiet chamber. He wept and raged, a tempest contained, until exhaustion claimed him. He sank back to the floor, clamping his mouth shut. But even with eyes squeezed tight, tears welled, spilling over, his breath catching in ragged hitches. “Damn it to the Under-spire!” Death’s embrace seemed a sweet, inviting thought. Not just then, in the aftermath, but for what had transpired the previous eve. He had sealed the window, he was certain. Could any have heard? Had the hushed sounds, the muted blows, carried through the thick stone? The thought gnawed. Accursed Kaelen. Despicable Lysander. Why had they come? Why had they sought to unravel his carefully constructed life? “...Damn them all.” Kaelen had not merely struck Elias before Lysander; he had trampled Elias’s pride. The humiliation, a thousandfold worse than any dismissive glance or cold shoulder Kaelen had ever offered. It was a searing brand, leaving him reduced to this shameful, broken wreck. Yet, even amidst such utter desolation, a part of him, the calculating Elias, worried. How did he appear? What impression did this pathetic display convey? Such was the peculiar torment of his nature. Silence pressed around him, sharp and absolute. He stopped crying. His gaze flickered to the clockwork timepiece on the wall. Just shy of the eighth hour chime. A chilling thought, clear and precise, cut through the fog of his pain: encountering Mistress Elara, the housekeeper, in this state would be catastrophic. A cold dread snaked through his veins. He could not allow anyone to witness his disgrace. Scrambling to his feet, Elias righted the overturned chair. He swept the scattered items beneath the bed, then settled back onto the mattress. Minutes later, a soft knock, punctual as the Guild bells, resonated at his door. He forced his voice level. “Do not enter, Mistress Elara. A chill has taken me. I feel quite unwell. I shall forgo the Guild today.” “Indeed, young master? Perhaps the Physicians’ Guild is warranted?” Her voice, though muffled, held concern. A bitter taste coated Elias’s tongue. “I shall consider it, if my humors do not improve.” “Very well. Might I prepare some gruel for your stomach?” “Please, leave it outside the door. My thanks.” “As you wish, Elias. Endure this, for a brief while.” He would not attend the Guild. His current visage was too wrecked, his spirit too frayed. No desire stirred within him to face the world. Fortune smiled thinly; a small vial of soothing liniment lay upon his dresser. He retrieved it, smearing the cool balm over his aching flesh, a desperate prayer for oblivion to the raw, ceaseless pain. Then, he retreated to the shadowed sanctuary of his bed. The empty liniment phial slipped from his fingers, falling with a soft clink to the floor. His body shivered uncontrollably, but the physical tremors paled against the searing humiliation. It felt as though countless cruel, tiny fingers pinched his very gut. The absurdity of it. To conceal his tear-streaked face, he drew the heavy velvet drapes, blocking the last sliver of twilight. He burrowed deep beneath the blankets, the rough wool a flimsy shield against the crushing despair. Sleep. He must sleep. Elias squeezed his eyes shut. It would pass. His parents knew nothing. Kaelen would not boast of such a sordid affair. All would be well. With that desperate thought, he buried himself deeper still within the covers. *** It was not well. Not at all. Hidden beneath the oppressive blanket, Elias muttered words that tasted of ash on his tongue. To any listening ear – the Machine-God, his absent parents, any unseen power – he yearned to scream it, a cataract of indignation. Please. Kaelen. It was Kaelen who had struck him. Who had trampled him. The viper. Kaelen was mad, utterly unhinged. All for Lysander. All that had transpired between them this past cycle, all the subtle, unspoken currents he had felt… Kaelen had crushed it, publicly, before Lysander’s scornful eyes. What an imbecile Elias was. He had displayed such weakness, such a pathetic sight, even to Lysander. And the chilling thought, that another might have borne witness… His frantic thoughts halted. A wave of self-loathing, black and cold, washed over him. He wished for dissolution. The most wretched act, following his fitful cries, was the methodical erasure. He scrambled to delete every missive, every call record from Lysander’s chronometer that night. Then, with trembling haste, he scoured the gate-scribe’s memory crystals, purging all recordings from the early morn. That night had become a grotesque secret, an abomination he could not allow a single soul to glimpse. *** Three days passed, and Elias absented himself from the Guild. Despite the hideous nature of his ordeal, his body, resilient in its youth, healed with surprising speed. Perhaps he had, unconsciously, shielded the more visible areas during the beating, or perhaps his pampered constitution was not as frail as he’d imagined. The visible injuries were minimal, a constellation of dark bruises concealed beneath his tunics. Nothing life-threatening, merely soul-crushing. For those three days, he remained entombed beneath his blankets, weeping. He ignored every chime from his chronometer, every insistent knock upon his door. He believed he could persist until his wounds were entirely gone, but fate was a cruel mechanic. His parents, who had been absent for a protracted journey to the Outer Vales, returned home unexpectedly. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. “...Son, what ails your face?” “Oh, well…” “A skirmish? You claimed illness. A mere cold, you said.” His father’s voice, usually a deep rumble, sharpened with interrogation. Elias’s mind raced, searching for an alibi. “Ah, um, I was feeling unwell. A friend collected my notice from the Guild…” “And?” “And I… I encountered a scuffle on my return.” “What sort of scuffle leaves a youth’s face thus? Who was it?” His father’s voice rose, edged with an unfamiliar fury. Elias frantically waved his hands, a desperate attempt to placate him. “No, truly, I wish no trouble. It was but a minor affair. We have since reconciled.” “Speak, boy—the cause of this ‘minor affair’?” “...Well…” After a moment’s desperate thought, he concocted a pathetic excuse, flimsy as old parchment. “I… I teased him for being forsaken by his betrothed.” “What?” Surprisingly, this absurd lie seemed to deflate his father’s anger. A disbelieving sigh escaped him, followed by a sudden, harsh bark of laughter. “Are the youths of Aethelburg naught but players in a guild-hall melodrama?” “No…” “See that it does not happen again.” “...As you command.” The relatively minor appearance of his injuries also aided his cause. The incident, to his immense relief, seemed to blow over. A peculiar incident, however, occurred. As they dined together in the flickering lamplight of the living chamber, his mother suddenly spoke Kaelen’s name. “By the by, Elias, do you still keep close company with Kaelen these days?” “What?” “He seems not to frequent our abode as often, I observe.” For a woman barely present in the household half the time, her sudden curiosity was jarring. The mere mention of Kaelen’s name conjured his image, souring Elias’s mood instantly. He snapped, irritation lacing his tone. “It remains as it always has been.” As if. Damn it. Damnation. The shame, the raw humiliation, made him wish the ground would swallow him whole. “Did not another friend visit recently? Mistress Elara mentioned it. Are you close with this friend?” Elias’s body went rigid. Slowly, his head turned toward the kitchen archway, where Mistress Elara was meticulously polishing the dining table. A chill, cold as a winter’s breath, ran through him. Had she heard? Could she have overheard anything that night? Was it possible she had been the one to perceive the sounds? “Elias? Is aught amiss?” His mother’s question startled him. He blurted a reply without conscious thought. “Yes. We are close.” What his mother said next, Elias could not recall. The sheer terror that rooted him to the spot wiped all other words from his mind. What he *did* remember was her expression when she had spoken of Kaelen. It was the same look she wore when relaying ill tidings. Why? That question propelled him further into a spiral of dread. His fingers grew cold, clammy. No. She could not have heard. Mistress Elara’s hearing was poor; her quarters were in a separate wing, far from his chamber. She could not have heard a thing. But why? Why did the air taste of wrongness? He could only offer a silent, desperate prayer to a deity he did not believe in. Three more days elapsed, and his parents began to press for his return to the Guild. Elias absolutely rebelled against the thought. But if he continued to absent himself, his mother would surely suspect a deeper malady than a mere scuffle. That, above all, was to be avoided. So, he forced a cheerful mien. Nothing was amiss. Everything was fine. The days leading up to his return were consumed by endless worry. What if he encountered Kaelen? Or Lysander? Would Kaelen beat him again? Would he humiliate Elias before his peers—or worse, before Lysander? Would he continue to grind Elias beneath his heel like some forgotten cog? His stomach churned at the mere thought. Finally arriving at the Guild of Scribes, Elias hung his satchel upon the side of his desk, scattering some random deciphering notes over it. He then sank into his seat, staring blankly at the polished wood as the hallway noise swelled around him. The moment he perceived approaching footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep. Perhaps, if he pretended slumber, his disfigured face would go unnoticed. For a time, at least. But he had overlooked one crucial detail: the seat behind his belonged to Thane. Thane possessed an uncanny knack for reading the currents of a room, yet often chose to feign utter ignorance. As Thane arrived, he paused beside Elias’s desk. A hand, cool and firm, slid between Elias’s shoulder and neck. Fingers curled, tilting Elias’s face upward. No time for resistance. No choice but to allow his battered visage to be seen. Thane raised an eyebrow, his gaze analytical, then spoke, bluntly: “What in the Machine-God’s name happened to your face?” “...Nothing.” “Did you trip again, Elias?” “Aye. Something of the sort.” “Indeed?” Thane clicked his tongue, a soft, dry sound, and shook his head before abruptly releasing Elias. His head nearly slammed against the desk. “Blast you, Thane!” Elias glared, startled. Thane merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, his eyes lost in some internal calculation. Elias could not fathom his thoughts. Neither Kaelen nor Lysander presented themselves at the Guild that day. Yet, during Elias’s absence, a whisper had begun to eddy through the Guild halls. “Hear ye? Kaelen… that wretch, he actually…” No one directly inquired about Elias’s injuries. But the curious, sidelong glances, the hushed conversations that abruptly ceased upon his approach, revealed the rumor had already taken root. Perhaps, he mused, his luck was not entirely forsaken. *** The whispers centered upon Elias and Kaelen. Neither had attended the Guild since the rumors began their insidious spread, and Lysander, too, had vanished shortly after, leaving no one to quell the burgeoning tide of calumny. Elias’s bruised and mottled face, a visible testament, fueled the rumors’ acceleration. The tale spun thus: Elias Thorne and Kaelen had come to blows. And, Kaelen harbored… unnatural affections for Elias. “That scoundrel, I tell you, he quite fancied the little Cog-grinder.” “A Cog-grinder? Oh, wait. By the Brass Golem! I cannot cease my mirth!” “He truly resembles a squashed cog, does he not?” “Aye, like one of those perfectly wound, yet utterly insignificant, pieces.” The Guild lecture room buzzed with such cruel pronouncements. “All those apprentices, once so close to Kaelen, now find themselves quite abandoned, cast aside. It is said he fell from grace due to his… devotion to the little Cog-grinder.”

Chapter 2.5: Cogwheels of Calumny